


Because Maybe His Medium is Three

by XTAIGAX



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Castiel, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Threesome - M/M/M, Wincestiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XTAIGAX/pseuds/XTAIGAX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Winchester are both college kids. Sam - being the smart kid he is - is studying at Stanford for Law. Dean's just studying at the community college for Lawrence, and maybe missing his brother-lover from the distance. His normal coffee routine is disrupted by the new 'artist', who staked his claim in latte art at the little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, and Dean just wants coffee, but maybe he can make an exception. Because a sleepy-eyed, odd artist who loves sweaters and tissue paper a little too much could be just the little cozy medium he and Sam need.</p><p>Besides, his house looks like a gift shop threw up in it, and he reads Vonnegut. What's not to like about him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Latte Art and Vonnegut

If he really thought about it, Dean should've thought that his daily routine being dismissed and thrown out the metaphorical window was a red flag on its own. It was the middle of the semester, the horrible build up to finals, so the admissions office wasn't going to accept any new members into the college. So the extremely long line into the hole-in-the-wall, smaller coffee shop on campus – there were two, and the other happened to be a Starbucks, of all things; most gravitated over there – was... weird, really.

Looking over the heads of various other college students, most falling asleep on their feet from being up at the asscrack of dawn, he just barely made out the rushing figures inside.

Dean Winchester really fucking hated waiting, but he'd be damned if he didn't get his coffee to pay attention in his trig class. The book was expensive, and he was working ass over end just to pay for what he had now. Furrowing his eyebrows and stifling a yawn, his gaze snapped up to see a hand waving over the mass of bodies, seeing Charlie poking her head over to the side to gesture him forward.

Thank fucking _God_ for Charlie.

Squeezing his way to the barista, he ignored the growls and groans of various other people, instead sliding inside, where it smelled more like... well, _coffee_. The business normally was overpowered with the smell of pastries, considering coffee itself never lingered very long in the front, being made in the back for college students that hurry out the moment they get their caffeinated heart attack.

"How's it going, Dean?" Charlie laughed, her face visibly brightening at Dean's scowl. "I have half an hour til Trig and I need coffee. What's with the overload?" he huffed in turn, glancing around the area before his eyes lingered on a small crowd off on one side of the counter, the sound of clicking cameras on cellphones annoyingly prominent.

"We hired a new guy. Staff thought we could bring in more customers and well... it kinda backfired. Starbucks staff's been all huffy and we're kinda backed up." Throwing her gaze off to the side again, Dean followed it before realizing he could see what the fuss was about.

A black-haired man – and he said man because there was a full-blown five-o-clock shadow involved – was on the opposite side of the counter. Pouring in dark liquid to a cup, using a straw to almost draw in a random design, and that maybe caught his attention. If he didn't just want a damn coffee right now to reach his class within the next twenty-something minutes. The girls squealed and cooed over the cup, pulling out their phones to take pictures before leaving, another person going up to the man after being given his coffee. Pulling out what looked like a single, crumpled dollar, Dean watched as the black-haired man looked up, dropping in some white liquid and stirring in the straw.

Okay, so maybe he was a little fucking curious. Ordering a single black coffee, Dean made his way over to the man and his customer, managing to watch the last second of the man doing his work. Glancing into the cup, Dean was admittedly impressed and maybe a little envious. Sitting in the few inches' diameter of the coffee cup was a picture of a fish. Black lines swirling around white patterns of the creature, the pale brown of the latte becoming the sort of central color. And honestly, it was actually pretty cool. The foam and coffee moved when the other picked it up, making the fish move like it was swimming as he was excitedly whispering about his major or something. There was a murmured, "Marine biology" in there, but Dean didn't care too much.

The moment Dean's cup of coffee was passed to him, he offered his campus debit card before popping off the cap and handing it over to the black-haired man. He glanced up, something flashing in the bright blue eyes before he started.

The Winchester's eyes immediately darted down to the coffee, watching the calloused hands of the blue-eyed man hover over the tall cup before starting. Dropping in small drops of milk, the white liquid from earlier, he used a new straw to start connecting the dots. More milk was added, the straw seamlessly blending it together, and flipping it to the opposite side when he needed to drag coffee into the milk instead of vice versa.

Within a minute, Dean had furrowed his eyebrows together. The symbol was a skull and crossbones, and that was odd to him. He didn't seem like the type that would appreciate something so morbid and cliched, would he?

Suddenly, the skull seemed pronounced and abstract, Blue Eyes pressing it closer with a small smile. Looking up to Dean, Blue Eyes murmured in a voice laced with gravel, "Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and finds himself no wiser than before."

Confused, Dean glanced up at Blue Eyes, eyebrows furrowed in before the other seemingly tried clarifying himself. "So it goes."

And suddenly everything clicked in a weird way. Dean knew he should still be confused because the other was speaking in quotes, but he enjoyed it and _understood_. And damn if understanding something like this didn't feel good. It was like knowing a secret language of some sort, and he found the only other person in the world that could speak it. Tipping his head back with a laugh, the brunet grinned before laughing out a, "Dean."

Blue Eyes seemed to catch on and simply nodded in turn, a sort of dip of his head, and murmured out, "Castiel."

And yeah, okay, so maybe Dean did think that the name was weird, but it fit him even more than something like 'Jimmy'. Watching the other for a moment, Castiel raised an eyebrow before glancing behind him at the line. Starting at the realization, he pulled out a five and handed it over, slipping his campus debit card back into his pocket. "Dean–"

"Keep it, Cas."

And Castiel seemed to contemplate whether to keep it before Dean took it from his hand, setting the bill into the colorful box beside him with a scrawled 'TIPS' on a sticky note. Shoulders dropping, Castiel smiled a bit, the wrinkles around his eyes even more pronounced now that he looked at them. The previously-named Blue Eyes looked older now, maybe in his early thirties, if he stretched his guess.

"Thank you, Dean. Remember, beware of the man... Become _wiser_ and do not just _learn_ trigonometry. It will do you well in most future professions."

Before Dean could ask – because that was some _serious_ fucking mind-reading shit – he was shuffled out of the way by a red-haired, impatient girl. Curling his lip at her and glancing down at the coffee cup in his hand, Dean flipped out his cellphone, dialing Sam. The phone stayed between his shoulder and his ear as he popped the cap back on, listening to the dialing tone of his brother's line and starting toward the building that unfortunately held his class.

"Dean?" came the groggy reply, Dean grinning a bit behind the lip of the cup. "Heya, Sammy."

"Dean, it's..." There was a shuffling before Sam groaning and the soft _whump_ of his body falling hard against the mattress again. "Dean, it's seven in the morning..."

"Yeah, yeah, rise and shine, Sammy." Dean hummed as he sipped his skull-and-crossbones coffee, waiting for Sam to register the words. Yeah, the younger was a friggin' genius, but his morning brain was a lot less functional than Dean's. While the older Winchester was accommodated to four-hour sleeping patterns, the younger couldn't function on anything less than a perfect eight.

"Anyway... So get this. There was this guy in the coffee shop, and he was doing some weird fucking thing with milk and, hell, I dunno. More coffee? He did this skull and crossbones in my coffee with the milk – which tastes really fucking sweet now, Jesus – but then he fucking started quoting _Slaughterhouse Five_ and _Vonnegut_. Like, he quoted the fucking _author_." Dean rattled off the words like he was trying to spit out a dying wish, almost dropping his coffee. Readjusting his cup with quiet curses, his eyebrows lifted in the smile that he hid behind the lip of the styrofoam.

After a long moment of silence, Dean almost thought the other had fallen asleep before Sam choked out a tiny, sleepy laugh. "You called me at seven... to say someone else knows about Vonnegut?" he finally huffed, amusement lacing his tone thickly.

Huffing and beginning to plead his case, Dean rolled his eyes before coming closer to the building. Tracing the thick bricks with his eyes lazily, almost ignoring the fact that he had five minutes til his class started, he almost _heard_ Sam shake his head. "I know you need to be in class. And since I can still hear you clearly without any static, you're not even inside. Go to class, Dean."

Grumbling quiet curses, aforementioned Winchester poked his lip out – not in a pout, dammit! He was _manlier_ than that! – before hearing a quieter, "I miss talking to you, Dean. But you need to learn."

"Miss you, Sammy," Dean blurted before clearing his throat to wave away the beginning of what could downfall into a chick flick moment. Trying again, he murmured quietly into the phone, "Love ya, bitch."

There was an amused huff before a mirrored, "Love you too, jerk. Call me after both our classes."

And if Dean maybe paid a little more attention in class because of Sammy and Castiel's words, well... he didn't mention anything.


	2. Of Fabric Ribbons and Tissue Paper

It was odd to him, how so many people indulged in an art form that took seconds to create, and seconds to completely dissolve. Perhaps it was the fleeting moment of the entirety of the transaction that caught their eye? The knowledge that once it was created, it passed in almost equal measure? That a singular coffee will always, without fail, be different than another? It can be made with the same hand, the same movements and flicks of his wrist, but they will always be individual, like snowflakes.

Or perhaps he was thinking too deeply upon the human psyche, and they were simply fascinated by such small things.

His meeting with Dean Winchester, however, completely switched his thoughts on that. Not _everyone_ was extremely fascinated by these things, and perhaps then he could make the Winchester's acquaintance, in a very different way. Just switching his normal routine was enough of a thrill, but gaining a new friend in a way that was untested by his standards was enthralling.

Strangely enough, he found himself quoting a favorite author – amongst many; Ernest Hemingway and Dean Koontz were also very high on that list – before he could question himself. Looking, really looking, at the simple drawing, he found himself staring at the abstract and surreal skull of _Slaughterhouse Five_.

"So it goes," he once again stated absent-mindedly. The realization flickered in his mind, like an ember that was doused with gasoline and relit. He'd seen Dean in the library on occasions, reading through _Slaughterhouse House_ like it was going out of style. Occasionally he seemed to pick up _Fahrenheit 451_ and though the plot was decent, Castiel believed that _The Illustrated Man_ was one of Bradbury's better reads.

Suddenly, the green-eyed male in front of him reared his head in laughter before introducing himself. Though Castiel knew Dean's name already, he politely introduced himself before growing uncomfortable. The amount of personalized attention was... new...

Though moments later, the Winchester seemed to be pleased with his new picture on his camera phone, and perhaps Castiel's introduction was pleasant enough that he left with a small curvature of his lip that Dean must have been unaware he was sporting. Carrying on with the rest of his shift after the other had left, Castiel's day had actually become rather colorful. There were the several comments of amazement and awe, and the occasional odd question of, "Are you psychic?"

Though the askance was rather offsetting and actually sort of humorous, he played along, beginning to recognize the wide-eyed look of wonder and straightfacedly whispering the quiet, faux secret of, "I _am_ psychic."

He felt bad for lying, but the even larger, wide eyes he received atoned for it.

Time passed slowly, weaving its way through the hands of the clock slowly. Dancing lazily, as though seconds weren't actually seconds, but instead they were steadily growing into minutes, hours, _days_ –

And instead, Charlie was nudging him with her shoulder, a small smile on her face as she looked up to him. "We're closing until tonight. See ya back in a few." Turning to the rest of the college students in the cafe, she clapped her hands with a grin and a wink. "Time to close up, bitches!" she called, her laughs bubbling in the air, showing it was a joke and not something derogatory. It was almost affectionate. "We open back up at six tonight, no less, and don't forget it, or your ass is getting handed to ya!"

Six... Looking up at the clock, he noted an approximate four hours he had to himself, and perked up. Finally... Instead of working on art that was a fleeting moment lost upon the wind, he could work on something a little more permanent.

"Don't forget your tips, Castiel. I saw that five Dean left you, and you can guarantee if you don't empty it, someone else will."

And that five in itself was actually enough to pay for his medium. Emptying his tips into neat assortments and setting them in his billfold – it kept the bills crisp and everything organized – the older male made his way to the party store.

It was always exactly a twenty-three minute walk that consisted of him trying to stay on the far side of the sidewalk, ever since a drunken driver had almost ran over him. He always let his mind buzz over new ideas, one flitting into another, always completely undeveloped, but nevertheless morphing in the split second it was sealed in his mind.

Stopping in front of a store, it was almost silent, considering it was a weekday. Sometimes, he imagined the scene like that of a movie, the man by the counter glancing haphazardly out the window and seeing him. His shoulders would square fitfully, eyes narrowing as he prepared for the inevitable; the store cleaning out of most of their supplies.

Arriving at the door and walking in, he knew the dramatic entrance was always lost, a small smile flitting across his features as the short blond man waved with a large grin. "Little bro! Ah, it's been a while, I almost thought you forgot about me!"

And maybe the 'man behind the counter' being his brother, the effect was dissipated, reminiscent of smoke.

"Cassie's here? It's been so long and boring! Ah, I do hate weekdays..." came a muffled voice from the back before a loud thud and a hissed curse. Amusement trickled across his thoughts before he beat down the smile threatening to overtake his features, dragging his gaze over to the back room.

"Hello, Gabriel. Balthazar."

"So what's the 'medium' this week? Balloons? We might still have some confetti, but we're still restocking that from last week, so your colors might be a few short of a rainbow there, fairy princess," Gabriel, the shorter blond, teased, propping his elbows on the counter.

Having the dignity to look somewhat ashamed, he peeked up through dark eyelashes, knowing that something about that simple look made Gabriel recoil and mumble apologies under his breath. The probability that it may have something to do with a look similar to a 'kicked puppy' was very high. "I've... I've come to relinquish your hold on several packages of tissue paper, if I may ask," he asked, fingering the worn edges of his billfold.

Perking at the askance, Gabriel nodded his head to the door in the back, whiskey eyes glinting mischievously. That look either signified that Castiel would land in a heaven full of the supplies he needed or a hell where there was nothing of anything.

And when he stepped back into the stock room, he was in heaven, because there was an entire box of tissue paper, the rainbow of crinkling paper sprawled across a tall, thin blond's lap. The taller man must have caught the pleased look on Castiel's face because he shoved the large box off his lap, patting off his body as he stood. "You'd like those bloody things? Just one feels like a dove, but the whole box feels like someone sat in it," he hissed, narrowing his eyes before huffing and picking up the spare packages.

"You gonna need a ride, Cas?" Gabriel called from the counter. "You're probably gonna buy the whole box again, huh? I only ask for a couple candy bars as gas money!"

Castiel knew that 'a couple' was in fact, approximately an entire carton of Milky Ways.

"My apartment is only a few blocks, Gabriel. I'll be fine," the black-haired one of the two blue eyed males huffed. Balthazar snickered in turn, picking up the box with a quiet groan, sauntering over to the counter and having the box scanned. There was no small displeasure rippling through his body to see a tally up of only about fifty dollars. His employee discount – which was actually his brother Gabriel's, but the man owed him a few favors – brought the total down to no more than forty.

Pulling out his tips and paying, he waved before setting off with the box in his arms. Balthazar's disgruntled groan was an enjoyable sound; the other man did hate when it turned out Castiel was actually stronger – or less vocal about his struggles upon the physical stress. There was a loud clap and a chorus of laughter followed by quiet curses, a sure sign that Gabriel had slapped Balthazar's back, and the other didn't enjoy it any more than the first one.

Twelve minutes later, and he was standing outside his house, fumbling with the door. It was jammed in a way that required lifting and pushing it slightly to the side. It'd never bothered him in a way like now, when he needed both hands to hold a box. Furrowing his eyebrows in hatred at the door – though it was completely illogical – there was a press of displaced heat to his side before a hummed, "Here, lemme help ya with that."

Sighing, the corners of his eyes crinkling in happiness, Castiel turned to thank the other man before it melted away on his tongue. Dean looked to him, green eyes slightly widened in recognition before grinning, eyebrows raised and reminiscent of a child.

"Oh, hey..." he started, pressing open the door and letting Castiel nudge it more with his hip before the blue-eyed male dipped his head in another thanks. "Which room's yours?" Dean asked finally, following Castiel up the stairwell.

"It's on the fourth floor. Four twenty-three," Castiel replied with a breathless huff, sweat sticking his hair to the nape of his neck and his forehead. Talking took much more out of him than he anticipated, and Castiel opted for letting Dean continue a one-sided conversation, preferring to listen.

"Four twenty-three? Oh _awesome_ ," he breathed, grinning widely. "I live in four twenty. Yeah, I know, laugh about it, but–"

"Why would I laugh about it?" Castiel breathed again, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He didn't understand what was so hilarious about the number 'four twenty', but several people on campus had laughed about it at some point.

Dean shifted in his spot before he flashed a strained smile, almost like he had accidentally told his baby brother about Santa's nonexistence. Or let loose a word that doubled as a curse in front of his parents. Mentally gasping, he tossed a glare to the other; he'd definitely cursed in his presence, and in _slang_. He must've known Castiel wouldn't understand the underlying meaning of 'four twenty'.

"My keys are in the front pocket of my overcoat, if you'd be so kind as to get them," he murmured, turning his hip out to offer the pocket. There was a moment of pause before Dean's fingers touched his hip, digging out the heavy weight of his keys and unlocking the door. Watching the door crack open as the brunet man stepped away, Castiel brushed by, heaving the box onto a chair beside the door. Letting out a long sigh of relief, his muscles thrumming pleasantly at the ease of strain, Castiel turned, pulling off his overcoat. He wore black slacks that looked about two sizes too big, and a rumpled, white-collared shirt underneath. "Perhaps you would like a drink? I don't often imbibe in alcohol, considering it doesn't have the 'buzz' that's quite known for being pleasant. However I do have whiskey, if that 'tickles your fancy'," he continued, tugging off his shirt like he was completely comfortable stripping in front of a stranger.

Disappearing behind a door, he came back out with a sweater decorated with pumpkins and black cats, cartoonish wide eyes and grins, though the orange-and-black turtleneck clashed horribly with the slacks. He normally walked around with only his boxers otherwise, though a guest would probably find that unappealing lingering on disturbing. Fabrics of different colors hung down from his ceiling, pinned with a simple tack in each in a system he knew by heart. Paints lingered in wall mounts instead of pictures, chalks and pastels and charcoals all settled in their own system as well. Canvases were set against every wall, ranging from a few inches by a few inches to entire meters differentiating in size and polygon. His wall seemed as though it were a canvas in itself; seemingly painted over and over with no obvious heed to a distinct mural. There were frenzied slashes of dark colors bleeding into soft swirls of pastels, as though he were dancing during the entirety of the process, no matter how long it took. Tissue paper sat in a rack, color-coded and neat, with haphazard scraps around the rims. Cotton balls and ripped leather belts littered the floor, a small box with various metal trinkets beside the door and being toed away.

Sending a tiny smile, crow's feet around the oceanic orbs, he headed to what was apparently the kitchen.

He saw the blessed and raw _awe_ that radiated in moss-green eyes as Dean followed him.


	3. Of Jack Daniels and Angels

The dude's apartment looked like some Party City or Hobby Lobby _threw up_ on it, and if that wasn't pretty fucking awesome, he didn't know what was. Looking around the place in raw and uninhibited awe, Dean quickly followed Castiel through the ribbons of fabric, trying to not touch anything lest he destroyed the system. Or something.

When he entered the kitchen, there was an artist bent over in a sinful forty-five degree angle that should've been impossible, at least, without being semi-uncomfortable. Pulling back, Castiel tugged out a forever-loyal Jack Daniels, two rocks glasses easily following suit. Eyebrows hitching at the drink choice, Dean shrugged off that he should definitely _not_ be accepting alcohol from the barista from his coffee joint. But hey, Charlie was on pretty good terms with him, and he read Vonnegut.

Which probably, in hindsight, should be the reason why he shouldn't, considering those were two reasons associated with Dean himself. Grinning as he was offered the drink, he waited until Castiel took the first sip before downing his own. Just cause he didn't look like he could roofie someone didn't mean he wouldn't.

It was a collapse into a silence that was as comfortable as it was awkward, considering Dean was one not to leave an area in silence. He was a loud person by nature, and just this companionable silence was leaving him... surprisingly comfortable, in an awkward sort of way once he decided to think about it.

"Thank you for your help," Castiel finally murmured, peeking over the glass of whiskey. Flashing a grin in return, Dean puffed out his chest almost like a prideful bird, the corners of his eyes crinkling with crow's feet. "Yeah. No problem, Cas," he hummed over the lip of the glass, stepping forward and turning to lean on the counter, a direct view to the living room. Or... art room.

"Cas?" the other man echoed back to him, confused before it seemed to click in his mind. Dean could pinpoint the exact moment the other's pupils constricted in understanding, eyes widening just a bit though he still looked sleepy-eyed. "A nickname." And that right there was what made the Winchester feel just the slightest bit protective over the man, even if he definitely looked older than him. He stated it as though it were a fact he'd never had to think about before; like he'd never had a nickname.

"Yeah, Cas. Hope you don't mind. 'Castiel' is just a bit of a mouthful, ya know?" he added, trying to brush off the instinct. The older man just nodded before setting down his whiskey glass, and Dean had half a mind that he'd offended the other somehow. Instead, he got a smile – not with Castiel's mouth, but more with his eyes – and the other glancing to his living room. "If you would like to stay, I don't mind. But I may not be the best 'host'; I've been meaning to start a new project since earlier today," he murmured quietly, and somehow that made his voice, which had sounded like he'd been gargling gravel for the hell of it, sound like it additionally went through the blender.

And yeah, Dean had maybe been really enamored by Cas's latte-coffee-whatever-the-hell art earlier, so he was maybe curious what the artist was doing. "If you don't care about someone watching?" he asked, setting his glass next to the other's and following him into the area. What he wasn't really expecting was the man to pick up an iPod, an older one. He was sure Sam would've been all over it, because he was pretty damn sure that was the original iPod that was long, thin one. As if reading his mind – _really fucking creepy mind-reading shit again_ – Castiel held up a red one and said, "IPod nano." Shuffling behind a few of the fabric ribbons, Cas disappeared and suddenly there was music playing quietly in the background, almost like an afterthought to the silence.

It was kinda... _fruity_. Not as bad as the one time Sam douched up his Impala, but still fruity. Reappearing with a simple glue stick, he watched the man brush by him to the furthest wall and grab a canvas. Not really too large, maybe one foot by two. And again, he was brushing by Dean, grabbing the box he'd carried in earlier. Managing to peek in, the Winchester glanced into the box, an eyebrow raised. Just packages... packages of tissue paper, most in order according to the rainbow, and that lead him to believe that, yeah, maybe he actually does buy them straight from the shipper's. Or maybe he was really anal about keeping it color-coordinated, though looking around the organized chaos of the art-slash-living room lead Dean to believe otherwise.

Watching Blue Eyes toe off his shoes and socks, he then proceeded to hunch over the canvas with the glue stick, dropping it with a loud clatter. Narrowing his eyes even more – and they looked like they squinted in the beginning, anyway, so it was a sliver of blue if Dean looked – Cas reached over, pulling out colors like he had an entire image in his head already.

Okay, so standing in the middle of the room and watching the other was a little creepy, so he settled down beside Cas on the floor, legs folded. "What're ya going to do?" he asked, and Cas gave him a look that was stuck between _'do you have to work on that level of stupid?'_ and _'I'm confused'_. Which was a really interesting feat, considering he only knew one other person with that level of skill on contorting their face to impossible mixes.

Sammy.

And it was actually really kinda weird knowing that he kept comparing Castiel to Sam. And then it was even weirder knowing that he wasn't having the big, giant _oh shit I might be gay for this guy_ that he was expecting. And that only happened with one other person.

Three guesses who it was, and the first two don't count.

So it was like maybe being blindsided and t-boned by a giant semi when he realized the man that he had met literally hours ago maybe already–

_Oh shit, Cas was staring at him, fuck, fuck, fuck, son of a bitch–_

Blinking rapidly and raising his eyebrows, Cas gave a weird expression between amusement and exasperation. "Dean, it is alright if you'd like to leave. You have no obligation to stay if you do not want to," he murmured, taking out a sheet of tissue paper before balling it in his hands with a loud crinkle. "Though it is customarily polite to listen after you've provided a question. Though my apologies if it was rhetorical–"

The Winchester paused before cutting off the other with a loud blurt of, "No, I'm actually interested!" Which was really lacking subtle tact and yeah, maybe he should've thought that out a bit better, but hey, Dean didn't function under pressure. The small smile that was, again, more of some sort of internal light flicking on behind blue eyes was enough to show that Cas was mentally laughing at his expense.

"I like making tissue paper angels," Blue Eyes finally provided, starting to tear apart the aforementioned tissue paper. The pieces weren't particularly small, maybe the size of a silver dollar, but the man spent time on each piece, laving one side of the paper with the glue stick before sticking it on the canvas. Within a few pieces, Castiel's hands were sticky with glue and the paper refused to move from his skin, but he still managed to rip each piece off delicately, just rolling his fingers to manipulate the tears.

It was really hypnotizing, actually.

And that wandered to what _else_ Cas could do with his fingers. Fingers brushing against the slight knuckles on the back of his hand, the slight curvature, probably from always having his hands curled around some paintbrush or pen, the barely-there callouses on the tips of his middle fingers, from how he'd hold a pencil...

And that was another weird thing he didn't really weird about. He was fantasizing about someone's _hands_.

Sam knew that Dean fantasized about practically everything, and yeah, he was guilty about thinking about some people, but he was loyal to who he was with. The only mental freakout the older Winchester seemed to be having right now was the fact that he was all up for Cas joining in on their movie nights. How Sam would definitely have a blast talking theology and books and societal justice with this guy. How just him and Dean curling up on a couch seemed to have a sleepy-eyed artist crawled across their laps and drinking down bitter and gross instant coffee that Dean and Sam would still steal sips of.

Hell, Sam liked drawing and painting, so he and Cas could relax with each other and do really fucking weird abstract things. Or fuck, even talk about the history of art.

Mentally groaning, he dipped his head. Oh god, he was going to hell for this. And to put the cherry on top, there was a warm displacement of air over his hand. The same slightly-curled, long but thick fingers hovering over his own awkwardly.

"Dean, are you alright?"

And now he was thinking about the gravely voice.

_Fuck._


	4. Of Bones and Pastels

“Dean, are you alright?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed slightly in curious worry. The man in front of him was looking near panic, eyes wide and brows furrowed, jumping slightly as Castiel placed his hand just barely above the other's. Mossy orbs snapping up to meet cornflower-blue, Dean paused, as though he didn't see Castiel, before taking a small breath. “Yeah,” he breathed, clearing his throat before repeating, “Yeah. I'm fine. Thanks, Cas.” Pulling his hand away from Castiel's, the other simply laid in in his lap. Denim crinkled under the thicker-set fingers, callouses catching on the skin in a way that told of years to hard work and blisters.

“You're always welcome, Dean,” the older man replied, continuing to glue down pieces of tissue paper with quiet humming along with the tune whispering from the speakers hidden away. The red iPod was always _Mariana's Trench_ , always set to shuffle, just so he never fell into the tune of music as he worked.

The band was always associated with a tissue paper medium, and Castiel had actually never thought upon the consistency he almost always relied on during his moments of artistic freedom. What felt like ritualistic movements and a sort of pattern that rivaled the fabric ribbons draped from the ceiling was most likely complicated in the smallest gestures to Dean, if the silence and unconscious easing closer to the canvas at his fingertips was anything to go by. Lifting an eyebrow, Castiel paid no more attention than he already had, drowning himself in opalescent blue and white, gold and black.

He hadn't meant to simply fall into tune, it just happened. Besides, Castiel still had about three hours before he had to go back to the coffee shop, and Dean didn't seem like a man that would end sticking around the entire three hours.

And three hours and seven minutes later, Castiel was proven pleasantly wrong. Glancing up as the track list of the iPod finally finished, fingertips sticky with glue and darkened with residue, he saw the furrowed brows of Dean, the look quietly insinuating that yes, he was actually very impressed. And the artist was actually rather impressed that someone had managed to stay by his side and watch, considering most would have left a long while ago.

Pulling away from the half-finished picture, he looked down to the piece, lips pursed into a thin line. It was sloppily done so far, large and small pieces overlapping after being crumpled, gaps between sections where the white of skin was, and the pieces needed to be delicately cut out and placed. The freelancing artist looked down to the small black strings of leftover glue clinging to his fingertips before running them haphazardly across his pants.

“I have work,” Castiel murmured, watching the other jump at the first words he'd spoken for a long while. Taking a hold of the broken, clear plastic that the medium came in, the obsidian-haired male slowly started tucking away the papers, meticulously, as though they were something holy instead of simple sheets of thin, opalescent tissues. Tongue darting out to wet against his chapped lips, Castiel glanced up to the other, mulling over a long gone train of thought. Did the other no longer have classes? Did he _skip_? Making a soft sound of disbelief,  he glanced up, eyes wide.

“ Do you not have classes?” Castiel rumbled, his voice low and gritty, vibrating in his chest. It was still a gravelly thing, like rocks coated in honey.  Dean looked up, almost like he was shocked more than anything, and  frowned, as though he had been personally been affronted.

Castiel found he hated the emotions that had flickered across the mossy gaze.

Watching his face for a long moment, Dean finally drew his brows together, and his lips pursed. “I pay my way through school, man. I'm not skipping classes,” he answered before stretching his arms upward, hearing the satisfying crack in his elbows and shoulders, the sound echo ing from his vertebrae, “ I just don't have any in the afternoons, cause I like them off.”

Being watched by Dean was a semi-disconcerting notion, a sort of fierceness in his  gaze that left him feeling strange, like eyes of a tiger were watching him and he was nothing but a simple beating heart.  Dipping his head a bit, eyes shutting gently, he added a low, “My apologies.” After all,  Dean was in his home, with the knowledge of where he lived, and after so graciously helping him.

The student let out a small laugh, like he was nervous or the apology was unexpected. Either way, it'd shocked him.  It'd shocked him enough that he raised his head, eyebrows drawn together and mouth downturned just the slightest bit, just the tiniest bit as though he were still reeling and trying to discern that he was, in fact, flabbergasted by Castiel's words. Instead, he tipped his chin up, grin wide and hand slapping his shoulder almost playfully. “No worries, man,” he insisted, leaving Castiel to prop the haphazardly-finished canvas against the wall. Instead of lingering, Dean simply rose, offered a hand, and  pulled the other to his feet when their hands clasped.

Offering what felt like a smile – an alien feeling on the normally-stoic features – Castiel made his way between the ribbons, like the apartment was no more than a maze of crafts that he'd learned to navigate; instead of hedges, it was a confining space of plaster, and instead of flowers, the area was decorated with fabrics and glues and paints.

Dusting off his slacks, Castiel raised his head, mouth still in a firm line though his eyes glittered with something like naivety and pleasant surprise. “Would you... accompany me on my trip to the coffee shop?” was all that was asked, and the bright glint in Dean's eyes, a soft mossy color gleaming a bright emerald, told him all he needed to know.

Grinning wildly, but oh so brightly, Dean laughed out a low, “Sure,” the corners of his eyes crinkling in a gesture that seemed as alien to him as smiling had been to Castiel,  but not for lack of trying .  It was just as though Dean had little to smile about.

Something akin to the warmth of a hearth against cold, winter-sodden skin lit behind Castiel's rib cage, his shoulders squaring in determination as he took a mental photograph, already plotting out  _medium? Strokes? Texture? Design?_

It was like Dean Winchester was a gift to his muse, wrapped up in the idea of acrylics and oils, a sweet whisper to his inspiration.

“Cas?”

And that was what broke him from the trance, making cornflower-blue orbs dart up to the figure. The playful, content look was replaced by confusion and irritability, brows drawn together almost moodily and petulantly. Straightening up, Castiel made a soft noise of confusion, deep in the back of his throat. Almost a bit like a questioning whine. “My apologies,” he murmured, raising one corner of his lips into a sheepish smile. He'd been dazed by the sudden _need_ to just _draw_ , and it'd been so long since that even happened. It'd been so long since he'd needed to sit down and simply sketch out what he saw, and the artist had been overtaken by it. Giving a questioning look in return, Dean only managed to turn and make his way to the door, head held up and moving like he expected Castiel to simply follow, and wasn't that another thing he needed to draw. The set of his shoulders, squared almost in constant trepidation, but confident, like he knew he'd win any battle thrown to him.

Like a dog thrown a bone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, everyone. I'm so sorry it took two years to update: My home had gotten flooded, so I was homeless for a while, on top of multiple surgeries, and that doesn't do anyone well in terms of muse. I finally settled down at an apartment, and with most hospital bills paid off, so I'm trying my hand at this again. I have the chapters plotted out, they just need fleshed out, so I shouldn't go on a hiatus longer than maybe a month (I still have a few upcoming surgeries; it's not pleasant).
> 
> I apologize that it's short, I just needed a sort of moment to get back on track in writing! The next chapter will be longer.


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